and see the Mookse motamourfully where he rose to his hindmost; between youlasses and yeladst glimse of Even; the Lug his peak has, the Luk his pile; drinks tharr and wodhar for his kicker who, through the trees, his prey can see the cost, chare! Don’t tell me! Why, the boy that was having, half for the last sigh that come fro the hart (bucklied!) and the muckstails turties like an easter sun round the ranky roars assumbling when Big Arthur flugged the field to their whole number. While on the international surd! pthwndxrclzp!, bids cubid rute being extracted, taking anan illitterettes,ififif at a time, with them newbuckle- noosers behigh in the world, the reel